Rationale
by the time and the tide
Summary: "It was a cold and calculating thought, measuring one's future happiness by the bereavement of another." Richard and Mary meet 5 years later. An AU story.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

_A/N: many thanks to **Lala Kate** for reviewing - without her this story would have most likely never seen the light of day._

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Why should he give a damn if the Minister from Finchley didn't find their most recent profile on him particularly flattering? The politician had practically begged him to do the story in the first place. He'd felt the piece was mere puff, hardly newsworthy and treading dangerously close to lionization. Thus, he'd exercised his perogative as editor and told a more interesting, if harsher, story. It was his paper after all, and he wasn't in the business of pandering to politicians.

He was in the business of selling newspapers. And as often as it stunned his staff to admit, the truth _sells._ Of course his writers would rather be concocting fantastic tales about actors or embellishing the results of cricket matches; but there's little better to excite readers - or improve circulation - than the cold, hard, distasteful truth.

This was one of the many things his colleagues resented about their line of work. Publishing facts, especially those that cast an unflattering light on certain prominent individuals, hardly endears oneself to the social elite of this world. Publishing salacious gossip doesn't either but in their particular trade, rumors of forbidden trysts or underhanded dealings were often more palatable than the truth, regardless of the veracity of such stories.

It had been a mystery to him why his peers in the newspaper business always balked at the prospect of offending those in positions of power. What, indeed, was the point of such periodicals if not to report upon the actions of their nation's leaders, if not to scrutinize and hold accountable? Why should readers bother spending any wages at all on their news sheets if the only information gleaned from them is fabrication and exaggeration? It wasn't often that Richard Carlisle felt noble about his profession, but in this instance at least, he knew he did right by his readers. He always printed the truth; for good or ill, to his professional success or detriment. Or to the detriment of others.

Truth above all else. That was his business model and it had served him well. Wealth, status, respect. Professional achievement. The righteous vindication that came with such dedication. He had all of these in abundance.

Personally… well, that was a different story altogether. Perhaps he hadn't always been as fastidious as he should in following as strict a code in his personal affairs. Lord knows he's told more than his fair share of white lies, in all likelihood just as many bald-faced ones as well. He'd hardly been the most honest of men when it came to his private pursuits. He could argue that such behavior was a natural result of the tenacity he displayed in his professional life. That he must find release in something, that something being his lack of good grace in personal failings. But to make those arguments required more effort than he was willing to expend. And really what was the point? Life was too simply too short, and he was far too busy.

He'd heard it said once that men were no angels. Richard would admit it was certainly true in his case. A chilly wind would blow in Hell before he'd be thought of as remotely 'angelic.' While that had once bothered him, his mother (as shrewd and discriminating a woman as had ever walked the earth) offered him sage advice on the matter: never apologize for ones' self. A matter-of-fact, if trite motto yet one that when employed, had proven correct. Thus, from that day to this, Richard made it a point to live by his mother's words and to never apologize, pander, or grovel. He was who he was, and he would never allow shame to cloud his successes, or his failures.

This then inevitably begged the question: if he vowed everyday never to dwell on his shortcomings (which indeed he did), why could he not let go of one in particular? One small, unworthy and undeserving wrinkle in his impressively long list of successes. Why could he not move forward? Why, even five years on, did it retain such a hold upon him? Looking back, as he found himself doing fairly regularly, he could not fathom how it had all gone wrong. And how ultimately he had lost everything.

It frustrated him to no end.

By all rights, he had played a winning hand. Granted he'd made a few mistakes along the way: appealing to that maid for information was hardly his finest hour. Threatening Mary, well, he should have known the type of reaction that strategy would inspire. Despite these slight missteps, however, if fate had simply minded its own business all parties involved would have continued forward to the natural end of things. He would be settled at Haxby. Crawley would be miles away, having retreated to Manchester no doubt to lick his wounds. Lavinia, as ignorant as ever, there faithfully attending him.

And Mary- Mary would be at Richard's side, safe from prying questions and long-suffering gazes. They would have begun their life together, formidable partners by any estimation. With his professional acumen and her connections to the glitterati of the world, what a life they would have had. He could scarcely see an end to their upward mobility, should things have gone the way he planned.

But things, of course, never did. Richard had always suspected his success would come at a price and fate had finally come to collect. Mary, the only women he had ever let himself love, was deemed proper restitution and he'd be damned if he didn't think it was all quite unfair.

Regrets and memories and unanswered questions plagued him. Distracted him. Even now, he could recall every detail of that fateful bloody night in December. A night that seemed quite unimportant, but one he would come to hate with every ounce of ire he possessed. The night that marked the beginning of the end.

He could still taste the wine they'd enjoyed at dinner, the duck he'd eaten while Mary sat beside him, and the mere two bites of dessert he'd forced down after she'd fled upstairs; and later, the scene in her bedroom, burned in his memory, never to be forgotten. The stifling air, the feverish color of the walls as candles burned in vigil for the young girl.

Watching Mary watching Crawley as he pawed pathetically at his fiancée, Richard had had to temper his annoyance at the whole sorry affair. He'd known Mary's tolerance for his mood was dangerously thin, and any show of impatience could have proven disastrous. Swallowing his frustration, he'd looked on without (much) judgment as Crawley pleaded with Lavinia. The irony wasn't lost on Richard, observing the tragedy that was Matthew Crawley: surrendering himself to the pitiful, albeit innocent, girl beside him rather than fight for the magnificent woman at his back. Richard had always assumed solicitors had minds built for logic; whatever misguided reasoning had lead Crawley to his choice was far beyond Richard's mental capacity.

Despite her betrothed's desperate pleas, Lavinia Swire whispered her final adieu that night. The meek little Countess-to-be shuffled off her mortal coil at the age of 21, and with it thrust the whole of Downton into a period of mourning. At first, Richard had feared Crawley's reaction to the poor girl's death. He assumed Matthew, without the albatross of Miss Swire about his neck, would careen headlong into Mary's waiting arms. And then he would have been forced to do something dreadfully drastic indeed.

But luck had smiled on Richard Carlisle and his fears were quickly put to rest as the effects of Lavinia's death unfolded. Although the girl had been a rather dull figure in life, in death Miss Swire was a force to be reckoned with. Her passing had been such a shock, such a terrible tragedy that the grief which followed echoed in the halls of Downton Abbey for months. Lavinia had martyred herself in such a quiet and pitiful manner that, in the end, Richard knew he would owe his ultimate victory over Matthew Crawley largely to her. For the young heir was certain to reject Mary and this rejection would at last convince her that a ridiculous middle-class solicitor from God knows where didn't deserve her devotion. Crawley's limitless grief would finally put an end to their never-was romance.

Standing next to Mary at the funeral, Richard couldn't help but feel a measure of relief. Dropping a bouquet of white roses upon the freshly dug earth, he gave a nod of thanks. The young woman's sacrifice would end Crawley's hold over Mary. Hers was a senseless death, but a useful one. It was a cold and calculating thought, to be sure, measuring one's future happiness by the bereavement of another. But then Richard was a cold and calculating bastard. When he heard Mary ask - not indicate, not intimate - but ask him to accompany her back to the big house, his cold and calculating heart beat a little faster. He couldn't be certain, but something told him he had reason to hope.

A small seed had begun to take root within his heart as he held Mary's hand, felt her body keep close to his during the wake and for days afterward. This small seed he would come to recognize only too late as love, he jealously tended and cultivated. Days bled into months and this tiny seed grew, its roots burrowing deeper into his soul. With Mary by his side, the dangerous feelings he'd once eschewed in favor of cynicism and reason suddenly didn't seem so dangerous anymore.

Somewhere along the way though, something changed. Mary changed. While he eagerly moved forward, she retreated. At first he'd believed her behavior to be merely a passing annoyance; it wouldn't be the first time they'd found each other at odds. He'd assumed pressing on would solve it, set a date for the wedding, finally put the past behind them. But every time he mentioned their future, Mary would change the subject or goad him into an argument. He could feel her slipping through his fingers, just as he'd seen Miss Swire slip through Crawley's.

He felt powerless to stop it and Richard Carlisle disliked feeling powerless. When he felt her pull back, when even the things they'd once had in common set her teeth on edge, he'd reacted the only way he knew how- he closed ranks. Whatever had caused the rift between them could not be eliminated overnight, but regardless of Mary's attitude, Richard was committed to the life he'd planned for them. He was sure that by sheer force of will, he could carry them through a momentary cooling in their relationship.

He thought that still. If only he could have found a way to keep Matthew away from her. If only he'd been able to convince her that such devotion was wasted on the man. He didn't understand her. He couldn't. Crawley had never had to work for a thing in his fairy-tale inspired existence. Even before becoming heir, he'd been nothing but a common tradesmen, more concerned with tax rates and income levels than navigating the upper echelons of society.

The young man's character wasn't completely without honor. He'd gone to war, of course. Richard could hardly dispute that fact. Yes, Crawley had done his duty to King and Country but under that shiny simplistic veneer of self-sacrifice hid a coward, hurling himself into the fray to escape his own feelings. Richard knew the moment they met, from Crawley's watery handshake, that he didn't possess a heart capable of understanding Lady Mary Josephine Crawley. Time and time again, he had proven right Richard's estimation of him. Matthew, a man brave enough to fight for the world's names thousands, yet lacked the courage to admit his feelings for a woman willing to give her whole heart to him.

Oh Richard had no delusions about Mary's affections for her cousin. Even in his jealousy he could still despise Crawley for rejecting the love she so honestly offered. It was only Richard's faith in the younger man's cowardice that kept them from direct confrontation. If he'd known Crawley would get over his guilt so quickly, Richard would have spirited Mary away before you could say Jack Robinson.

Richard had bet on the overwrought conscience of a man determined to punish everyone around him, assuming that in his quest to blame himself as well as Mary, Crawley would destroy whatever faith she had left in him. Had Richard's wager rested on Matthew alone perhaps things would have turned out differently. What he hadn't accounted for was Mary. Never in a million years did he think she would reveal her secret. To take such extreme measures to protect it, to entrust it to Richard himself, to marry him so that it never saw the light of day. These were not the actions of a woman ready to bear her scarlet letter to the world.

But, it wasn't the world she was concerned with. She cared what others thought, worried what would be said in society once the scandal was out. In the end, though, it didn't matter what anyone assumed of her – the only opinion of consequence was that of the future Earl of Grantham.

Perhaps he should have seen it. He should have realized how close he had been to losing Mary. That he never truly possessed her at all. But in his haste to see them married and settled, Richard lost sight of his goal. Somehow the details had blinded him; he'd become so focused on keeping Crawley away, keeping Mary focused on meaningless things, keeping his own miserable life afloat, she'd left him spinning his plans in vain.

And as much as he wanted to blame Matthew Crawley for all of it, Richard wasn't a fool. He knew he'd largely been the author of his own misfortune. He'd allowed his jealousy to override reason. Those seeds of passion Richard had so carefully tended at the beginning of their romance he'd allowed to burst forth as forests, teeming with desire and distrust. The clinical nature in which he once conducted his life had shattered in the face of his insatiable need for Mary. Richard had never experienced such feelings as the ones she stirred in him, and he'd become drunk on them. Everything about the woman was rich and indulgent; everything his life had never been. To have her then was more than just proof that he'd finally achieved the respect of a world that had so often ridiculed him. To marry such a woman, as pragmatic yet as quietly passionate as himself, meant that he had found his equal. Someone to challenge him and augment him in all the ways he knew he needed.

What poetic justice it was that at the very moment he acquired her, she'd thrown him over. She rejected him in favor of a tiresome nobody, apparently content to live out her days as the wife of a country solicitor with no more to his name than the hope of inheriting that which should have been hers in the first place.

That Mary should have gone back to Crawley so willingly, to risk her good name as well as her family's, all to satisfy a desire to be mistress of Downton Abbey was rather disappointing. Richard had come to expect more of her. The Lady Mary Crawley he'd pursued wasn't one to yield to what was expected. In fact, telling her to do a thing was the surest way of achieving the exact opposite.

The thought had occurred to Richard that she was simply in love with the fool, but he'd dismissed it at once. Such an answer would be far too simplistic. And Mary was anything but simple. Then again, there was a certain pragmatism to her choice, Richard had to concede. She'd been groomed to preside over Downton, instructed in its goings-on her entire life. So in the end, marrying Crawley achieved the only goal Mary had truly set for herself in this life.

Perhaps that was it. The truth he'd searched so long for. That ultimately he'd underestimated Mary's need to possess her beloved Downton; underestimated her affection for cousin; and overestimated her contempt for doing 'what was expected.'

Such were Richards Carlisle's thoughts as he moved through the busy streets of London, navigating the tourists and motorcars and vendors hocking the evening papers. Though he was thoroughly preoccupied with his own musings, he did not miss the flash of black and familiar, elegant stride that suddenly crossed his path.

Should he live to be one hundred, he will never forget the object of his obsession, his hate, his love- for there she stood in front of him, as ageless and mysterious as ever.

Mary.

"Mary Crawley... as I live and breathe," he said, a hand raising quite without his permission to remove his hat. Protocol required certain behavior, and a man of his standing could hardly forgo them. At least some part of him had remembered.

A tight smile formed; her mask firmly in place. Richard had seen that smile many times, the one she reserved for… situations exactly like this. Uncomfortable yet mandatory interactions with persons she would rather avoid.

"Hello Richard," she said, the words confident and gentle, at war with the emotionless face she now wore. Damn it if they didn't affect him.

Still.

Clearing his throat, he responded, "I heard of Crawley's passing. My condolences."

Yes, Crawley's death. Almost five years ago. It had been somewhat shocking, even to Richard. It wasn't every day a future Earl was killed in a motorcar accident - in the country. If the grieving widow hadn't been Mary, he'd have found amusement in the very silly and very pointless story. Richard had thought of writing at the time, even made it as far as addressing the envelope only for his mind to recoil at the thought of sending a letter of condolences over the death of man he had wished would face that very fate many times.

Silence settled between them. It seemed neither party knew quite what was required of them beyond empty pleasantries.

Mary's shoulder was tugged downward, something small ringing her hand as if it were a bell rope.

"Who's this fine chap, then?" Richard found Mary's eyes once more, but found he couldn't recognize what reflected back. Glancing down he said, "Hello, young man. What's your name?"

The innocent voice of a boy confirmed his suspicion, safe at his mother's side. "Matthew."

Of course. "Hello Matthew." Richard bent his knees, coming face to face with Crawley's spitting image. He offered his hand in greeting and couldn't hide his surprise when the little fellow reached out and shook it. "I'm Richard Carlisle."

Before he could ask again, Mary ended things. As she always did. "Come on, darling," readjusting her hold on the boy's hand. "We should really press on."

"Yes of course." Richard rose to his full height. He would have repeated the gesture and offered her his hand if he thought Mary would have given a moment's thought to accepting it. "Well, it's been a pleasure," he said instead, absently draping his coat across his other arm and replaced his hat.

He nodded once to Mary and offered a final farewell to her son.

That was it, then. A strange bit of verse drifted into his thoughts without warning. _How often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it…_

And all at once he couldn't stop himself. "Mary- I'm in London for three weeks. Perhaps we could…"

She didn't need any words. Her face told him how foolish the thought had been.

"Goodbye, Mr. Carlisle."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Crawley."

He could never be sure but as he turned to leave, Richard thought he heard the boy ask, "Who was that, mommy?"

"No one important, darling."


End file.
